She did not bother to try the easy routes first. She could not afford the time taken by failure, nor perhaps the warning to others that she was so keenly interested she would call in old favors in order to see him.

Therefore she went straight to see the appropriate assistant commissioner of police. A long while ago, in their youth, there had been a time when he had courted her, and later, when they were both married, there had been a long weekend house party in one of the great stately homes of the duke of something-or-other. An afternoon in the yew walk sprung to mind particularly. She disliked calling on memories in such a fashion-it lacked grace-but it was extremely useful, and Ryerson’s need was too profound for such delicacies to stand in her way.

He received her without keeping her waiting. Time had been kind to him, but not as it had been to her. He was standing in the center of the floor of his office when she was shown in. He looked thinner than in the past, and his hair was very gray.

“My dear…” he began, and then was uncertain quite how to address her. It had been many years since they were on familiar terms.

She responded quickly, to save him embarrassment. “Arthur, how generous of you to see me so quickly, especially when you must be quite certain, when I have come in such indecent haste, that I am seeking a favor.” She was dressed in her customary pale colors of dove gray and ivory, pearls at her throat, gleaming to give light to her face. She had learned over the years exactly what became her best. Even the most beautiful of women, or the youngest, have colors and lines which do not flatter them.

“It is always a pleasure to see you, whatever the reason,” he replied, and if he was saying only what was expected of him, he did it with an air of sincerity one could not disbelieve. “Please…” He indicated the chair at one side of his desk, and waited until she was seated and her skirts arranged with a single flick, to fall richly and without creasing. “What may I do for you?” he asked.

She had debated for some time whether to be direct or indirect. Arthur had been somewhat unsophisticated in the past, but time might have altered that, and he was now no longer in love with her, which fact in itself would give him a better ability to judge. There was no romantic ardor to blunt his intellect. She decided on directness. To attempt to mislead him would be insulting. But then so would simple statements of need without at least lip service to the past, and the delicacy of memory.

“I have acquired some interesting relatives since we last met,” she said with ease, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to discuss. “By marriage, of course. I daresay you recall my late great-nephew, George Ashworth?”

Arthur’s face fell into immediate, quite genuine regret. “I am so sorry! What a tragedy.”

His words enabled her to dispense with whole paragraphs of explanation.

“There is much tragedy indeed,” she agreed with a slight smile. “But through his marriage I acquired a great-niece whose sister is married to a policeman… of remarkable ability.” She saw his start of amazement. “I have from time to time involved myself in certain issues, and learned to understand some of the causes of crime in a way I did not when I was younger. I daresay the same is true for you…” She let it hang, not quite a question.

“Oh, yes, police work is…” He lifted his shoulders. She noticed again how much thinner he was, but it was not unbecoming.

“Exactly!” she agreed firmly. “That is why I have come to you. You are in a unique position to give me some small assistance.” Before he could ask her what it was, she hurried on. “I am sure you are as puzzled and distressed as I am by this miserable business at Eden Lodge. I have known Saville Ryerson for many years-”

Arthur shook his head. “I can tell you nothing, Vespasia, for the simple reason that I know nothing.”

“Of course!” She smiled. “I am not asking you for information, my dear. It would be entirely inappropriate. But I would like to be able to see Saville myself, urgently, and in private.” She did not wish to offer any explanation, but she had prepared one in case he should request it.

“It would be most unpleasant for you,” he said awkwardly. “And there really is nothing you can do for him. He has all the necessities, and any luxuries he is permitted. The charge is accessory to murder, Vespasia. For any man that is serious, but to one who has had the position and the trust that he has, it is devastating.”

“I am aware of that, Arthur. As I said, I have had far more experience of the less-attractive sides of human nature since poor George’s death. I have even been of assistance now and then. If I am placing you in a position of difficulty, where honor obliges you to refuse me, then please do me the courtesy, for old friendship’s sake, of telling me so directly.”

“No, it does not!” he said quickly. “I… I was thinking only of your sensibilities, and embarrassment if you should find him greatly… changed. You may not be able to avoid the conviction that he is after all guilty. I…”

“For heaven’s sake, Arthur!” she said impatiently. “Have you confused me with someone else in the pleasant summers of your past? I fought on the barricades in Rome in ’48. I am not a stranger to unpleasantness! I have seen squalor, betrayal, and death in many forms-some of them in high society! May I see Saville Ryerson-or not?”

“Of course you may, my dear. I shall see to it this afternoon. Perhaps you will do me the honor of taking luncheon with me? And we shall talk of the parties we used to have when summers were longer-and warmer than they seem to be now.”

She smiled at him with true affection, remembering the yew walk, and a certain herbaceous border with a blaze of blue delphiniums. “Thank you, Arthur. I should be delighted.”

SHE WAS SHOWN into the room where her meeting with Ryerson had been arranged, and the guard withdrew and left her alone. It was a little before six in the evening, and already the gas lamps were burning inside because the single window was high and narrow.

She had not long to wait before the door opened again and Ryerson came in. Tired as he was, robbed of the immaculate shirts and cravats he normally wore, he looked pale, a little untidy. But he was still a big man, not shrunken or bowed by fear, although she saw it in his eyes as soon as the door was closed again and he turned to her.

“Good evening, Saville,” she said quietly. “Please sit down. I dislike having to crane my neck to see you.”

“Why have you come?” he asked, obeying her, his face sad, his shoulders a little hunched. “This is no place for you, and you hardly owe me this. All your crusading for social justice does not include visits to the guilty.” His eyes did not evade hers. “And I am guilty, Vespasia. I would have helped her move the body to the park and leave it there. Indeed, I actually picked it up and placed it in the wheelbarrow… and the gun. I appreciate your kindness, but it is done in a misapprehension of the facts.”

“For goodness’ sake, Saville!” she said tartly. “I am not a fool! Of course you moved the wretched man’s body. Thomas Pitt is my great-nephew… at least he is by virtue of several marriages. I possibly know more of the affair than you do.” She was gratified to see him look genuinely startled.

“Whose marriages, in God’s name?” he asked.

“His, of course, you fool!” she retorted. “It would hardly be mine.”

His face relaxed in a smile, even his shoulders eased a little. “You cannot help me, Vespasia, but you certainly bring light to the gloom, and I thank you for that.” He moved his hand as if to reach across the table between them and touch her, then changed his mind and withdrew it.

“I am gratified,” she responded. “But it is incidental. I would like to do something far more practical, and of greater duration. Thomas has gone to Alexandria to see what he can learn of Ayesha Zakhari before she came here, and of Edwin Lovat-if there is anything to learn.” She saw him tense again. “Saville, are you afraid of the truth?”